The Devil You Know
by intoxicatedasphyxiation
Summary: "Better the Devil you know," he told me. I wish I had listened, then. [Sleeper-centric, features Russian cape politics.]
**Disclaimer:** Worm belongs to Wildbow.

Here lies a **Sleeper** fic from the Wormverse. This one centres on the most popular (and simultaneously the most unlikely) version of what his power could be. It was meant to be super cracky, but it turned out pretty serious.

To be safe, I asked a Russian friend of mine about possible translations for "Sleeper", since I figured that there might be some translation issues, in terms of how the name sounds in Russian vs. English. I learned that спящий is the word for "sleeper", but that there is no particular word for "sleeper" that sounds badass. I was given Дремлющий instead, which stands for "dormant" or "the dormant one", and supposedly carries an air of heavy mystery to it. So now my official headcanon is that in Russia, he is known as Дремлющий, but to Americans (and the English speaking world), he is known as the "Sleeper", because that definitely sounds better in English.

I was also given Ночной призрак (Night Ghost), Призрак Ночи (Ghost of the Night, with more negative connotations), and Спящий Дьявол (Sleeping Devil) respectively. I belong to the Tolkien school of thought where more names implies you have a more badass reputation, so I'm going with that logic for our dear Sleeper.

Also, the audiobook for The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson is approximately 46 hours long. If a person listens to it for an average of three hours a day, it would take about two weeks to complete. I love how that actually works out for the purpose of this plot. Knowledge of this book is not necessary to enjoy the story.

Russian politics is based on Word of Wildbow.

Forgive me, Russia, for Americanizing the literary taste buds of your citizens.

* * *

 **The Devil You Know**

* * *

There were unspoken rules about the Offerings.

One; all Offerings were to be deposited at the edge of the forest, just beyond the clearing. This was to be done before sunrise around five o'clock every Monday morning. In the event of bad weather, this was to be done before noon. However, nothing qualified as bad weather anymore after the local carpenter built an altar with a roof.

Two; nobody was allowed to linger in the forest, which in turn led to:

Three; nobody was allowed to speak about what they saw, if they saw anything at all.

The town council had put the last two in place because of what Kariyev's widow saw. When the doctors tried to get her to describe it, she had bitten her tongue off and dug her eyes out with her hands. My father had seen it in person. The rumours only got worse from there.

The schedule was drawn up by the council, and all citizens took a turn. Three families were responsible for setting up the weekly Offerings at a single time, though there were times when others chipped in. This tended to be by those who felt particularly religious. I think the local priest advocated it as a method of showing repentance; a means of channelling confession.

I didn't subscribe to those beliefs.

It was three in the morning when my mother shook me awake. We had done most of the preparation the night before, and I was glad that we were assigned to cooperate with the Bazarovs and Vedenins. The Bazarovs were poultry farmers and always provided live chickens as their Offering. The Vedenins owned a bakery. That left the rest of the food pyramid to us, and we filled baskets with potatoes, fruits, long-life milk, and vegetables. My brother added a can of baked beans just to be safe.

As for me, I liked to supplement our Offering with books.

Most of them were old things I had read. Everything from Maggie Holt during my youth to the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke. Sometimes I even threw in a few gems from Earth Aleph. Neil Gaiman was one of my favourites. He didn't come cheap, especially since he wasn't Russian to begin with.

My brother was a heavy sleeper and my father worked late, so it came down to me to make the delivery that particular day.

The Vedenins were early risers, and the Bazarovs always made their drop-off the night before. It was four by the time I reached the altar. Someone had placed a thick blanket over the damp wood, which gleamed dark from the dew. I left my basket in the centre, arranging the others into a neat line. The chickens fluttered around in their cage, squawking territorially in limited space.

It was a curious thing the townspeople said, and I heard whispers from various groups. Those who packed their Offerings in proper containers often found them back on the altar the following week, cleaned to be used again. Their owners simply threw them away, but the thought of such an action always stuck with me for days.

Withdrawing a blanket of my own, I found a tree trunk large enough to keep a grown man out of sight. Slipping down behind it, I brought out a book and clipped my book light to an open page.

Perhaps I was a fool to lie in wait, but it would be several months before I came here again. The decision was easily made.

I waited for minutes that felt like hours, even though time was expressed by light. It filtered in between the trees, a sharp glow that leapt off damp leaves and flickered into my eyes.

I gasped when I heard the snap of a twig.

Covering the head of the book light in my hand, I pulled my body in, holding my knees tightly to my chest as I leaned back against the tree.

I heard a voice before I even tried to look.

"Show yourself," said the Devil of Kasimov, like a spider to a fly.

I felt a shiver. My body shook as I heard the slow shifting of feet across broken leaves.

"Don't make me come for you," said the voice again, each word slow, without inflection.

I crawled out long before I stood. My gaze stayed low as I did, drifting towards the base of the altar, until I saw a pair of feet.

My eyes flicked up, then away.

And then I looked back again.

His eyes were dark, even with the sunlight coming through the trees. He looked me over once, his gaze lingering on the book within my hand.

I was taken aback by how normal he looked. Dark jeans, white shirt, and a jacket with a mandarin collar. His hair was messy and light brown, like teak. He didn't look a day past thirty.

"You… can see me." He frowned, as though deep in thought.

His fingers drummed lightly against one of the books in the basket. Dusting some of the dirt from my pants, I tucked my book under my arm and slowly backed away.

"Leave my sight and I'll make sure you never walk again," he said, almost quietly. He tapped my Offering basket once. "Bring this along."

* * *

Long before the Offerings, long before the fear, Kasimov had a population of thirty thousand strong. When the Devil came, many fled. Even the capes took to bigger cities, wrecking the roads as they left.

There were no tourists these days; only traders, and even those were far and few.

Rumour had it that a rich man built a summer home in the clearing beyond the forest. I didn't believe it until I saw it.

It was nothing grand, in all honesty—just a decent-sized cabin with a balcony and a lawn chair sprawled across it.

I hesitated as we approached, but a hand on my shoulder steered me forward. I found the kitchen easily, and he kept the door open behind us. I watched as he removed his jacket, tossing it over the back of a well-loved armchair. He leaned against it comfortably, keeping me in view.

"Leave your book," he said, gesturing to the one I was reading earlier.

I took in the room. Everything looked cosy, and scenic paintings lined the walls. Most were of beaches, with sand that went for miles into the horizon. There were two closed doors that led to other rooms, and a third that led into a study.

"Give me your phone," he said, palm outstretched. Expectant.

I took a step back. "…Why?" I asked.

"Don't make me ask again."

I turned, slightly, catching the open exit in the corner of my eye. It was a short sprint, several metres at best, and if I made it across the clearing, I could try losing him in the forest. I regretted not trying, earlier. My mind kept jumping to his threat.

"Try," he said, and this time, he sounded amused. His head jerked towards the door.

"How far do you think you'll get?" he asked. "Even if they hear you scream, they'll never come for you. Nobody dares, when I'm around. Nobody dares a thing."

"Please," I whispered.

"Your phone," he repeated.

I fished it out of my pocket, and my hand shook as I placed it in his hand. He cracked the back cover open at once, popping out the battery and sim in one quick move. I inhaled when he snapped the sim in half.

"There are no eyes in this world that can find me," he said, restoring the battery and passing it back. "But it never hurts to be sure."

Certainty overcame me. "Are you going to kill me?" I asked.

He gave me an assessing look. "Do you want me to?"

"If you're just going to anyway, you might as well get it over with," I snapped bitterly. I didn't mean it, of course, but the tension was getting to me.

He was silent for a bit, but then he chuckled, like it was a joke. "Makes sense," he said, mostly to himself. "A quick death would be a mercy, I'm told."

I could feel my nails digging into my palms, but the pain was nothing. Not really.

"Why don't we start with something simpler?" he asked, false cheer palpable. I gave him my best dead-eyed look. "Go back and get the other basket. You can leave the chickens."

Swallowing, I glanced towards the door.

"Why?" I didn't understand where this was going.

"It's your choice, really," he said, his shoulders rising in a casual shrug. "You can keep walking and never look back, and then you could try to leave. The roads are pretty bad, but if you have a car, you'll probably make it out fine. I'll even give you a head start. But who's to say I won't drop by the town, give it a peek? I wonder… how long has it been?"

I balked at his question. We both knew what he meant.

Back before the Offerings, back when the Devil was new, he had taken a walk through town—some said to survey the view. Half the population went with him, and everyone went mad for a day. The grand exodus of people was what he left behind instead.

It was the reason the Offerings were in place. A form of appeasement, a means of keeping the Devil at bay. So far it had worked—at least, until Kariyev's widow saw his face.

I didn't know how his power worked—nobody knew. The Americans kept a website known as the PHO, with webpages that detailed the various capes in the world. My knowledge of English was passable at best, but all they listed of the Devil was that he was an S-Class threat.

The best I could do was piece together everything he said.

He was tracing patterns in the soft plush of the old chair when I inched towards the door.

Clutching the remnants of my phone, I left.

* * *

I smashed the phone into several pieces, leaving my own gingerbread trail along the forest path. I buried my blanket under fallen leaves, ripping at old seams. It was the closest I could get to a signal, a cry for help.

The chickens were clucking around comfortably. I guess captivity was all they knew. The thought of such a life haunted me, but what could I do?

I considered rolling the pastries in dirt, but thought better of the deed. I wouldn't put it above him to make me eat it—some capes were known for such cruelty. It would be a week before another three families came by, and by that time, I could be dead. I shuddered to think that this forest could be my final resting place.

Sprinting to town would be easy, convincing my family to leave would not. My father stayed because of what the Devil did; he had seen the day of madness first-hand.

"Better the Devil you know," he told me. I wish I had listened, then.

Taking a sweet bun from the top, I tasted only salt from my tears. I wept for the world I was leaving behind; the life I would never live. It hit me then—why hadn't I carried a pen? I could have left a message on some bark somehow, but even such a thing was beyond me now.

It was almost noon by the time I made my way back.

* * *

There was kompot on the kitchen table, and next to it a glass.

"I haven't decided what to do with you," he said conversationally, "but for now, you should probably eat."

He put a plate in front of me. Eggs on toast and baked beans.

He watched me closely before pouring me a drink.

"Poison is a layman's trick," he said jokingly, as I poked the wobbly egg with a spoon.

"Has anyone tried?" I asked. "Poisoning you, I mean."

His head tilted slightly as he leaned back, as though seriously contemplating the query. "…No, actually."

"We could test it out," I said sulkily, "just to check if you're immune."

He blinked once. Twice. Then he laughed—a short bark that sounded like a scoff.

"Yeah… I guess we could," he said, stroking a thumb across his chin.

We sat in silence for a long while—him watching me not eat, me watching him watching me.

"Will you ever let me leave?" I asked, relenting to stab my spoon into the egg. The yolk ran like a slow river across the bread.

"…I haven't decided yet," he said. The words were soft, almost misleadingly kind.

In that moment, I hated him for it.

* * *

The rules he gave me were simple, the foremost being to stay out of his room. He made me hand over my wristwatch and forbade me from wandering beyond the clearing, stating that my limit was to be within his line of sight.

I locked his comment away in a far corner of my mind.

The room he gave me was sparse in its design. There was a window that went nowhere, with only an empty field for miles. There was clearly dust on the bed, and the mattress creaked noisily with springs. The sight of it sold me on this caged finality. Even the en-suite bathroom didn't make up for it.

"I've thought up a use for you," he said that evening, when all I had to wear were his old clothes. The thought of it had made me uncomfortable at first, but I quickly acquiesced after a warm shower and the sight of my sweaty pants.

He led me to the fireplace, where the smell of wood burned strong. I saw my book lying on a thick fur rug, the book light curled up beside it like a swan.

"Read," he said, sinking into the armchair barely a metre away.

I crossed my legs, flipped open the book, and did as he said.

"Aloud," he added. "Right from the start."

"I thought capes found Aleph fantasy stupid," I snapped, saying the first thing that came to mind.

"Redundant, not stupid," he answered. "But I take what I can get. Even that Maggie Holt garbage." He gave me a dry look. "I presume it's you I have to thank for that."

"She captures true emotional depth," I defended. Holt was a YA queen.

He scoffed dismissively. "Teen trash written by a trashy teen, for other trashy teens. If emotional depth could be measured by the thickness of a cardboard box, I'll admit, she's probably several boxes deep. But that's as far as she goes."

Taken aback, I opened my mouth to defend, but he simply raised a hand.

"Just read," he said, ending the discussion to lean back into his chair. I watched as he closed his eyes, almost meditatively.

I fumed for moments, before giving in. "Prelude to the Stormlight Archive," I read, giving my book the attention it deserved.

* * *

Time passed slowly at first, bleeding hours into days. There was no set rhythm for all the things he did throughout each day. I began to lose track of time, particularly when he stopped serving breakfast for lunch. I began to sleep in late, waking only when the sun burned hot at high noon. Not once did he complain, and he always gave me food.

Some days he would bring an extra chair out to the balcony, making me sit and read as he lazed under the sun. It got to a stage where he would laugh or scoff at the different accents I made, and once, he quoted a whole paragraph back to me verbatim just to drive a point home about something I said.

At mealtimes, he would bring up the progress of the novel and we'd discuss its merits and flaws. Kaladin Stormblessed was my favourite—the dangerous, noble slave with tremendous luck and hidden depths who fought desperately to protect his fellow bridgemen, even when they were reluctant to follow him. Here was someone out to make the world a better place—someone whose odds were stacked against them, and they tried to rise above it anyway.

"I have seen a hundred like him. In the real world, he would have been killed immediately." The Devil scoffed, dismissing him as typical fantasy protagonist. I shot him a look that would have burned most critics.

"Who do you like, then?" I asked, stabbing my potatoes viciously with a fork.

He remained silent for a while before answering. "…Szeth." His eyes met mine. "You talk a lot about Kaladin's struggles, but what Szeth experiences is much closer to true suffering. Cast out from his own people, and given a power greater than even those of a king's, but it's not even really his to use as he desires… so much so that his only joy left in this world is the anticipation of finding someone greater than him who could finally kill him. But he never does. In the end, it's just him and his power, and everyone else who either fears him or wishes to use him for what he can do."

I looked down at my food.

"Or Wit," he said, much more jovially. "That man is the world's greatest troll and he just owns it."

* * *

I knew a week must have passed when he brought back new baskets of food. He must have seen the accusation in my eyes; I don't think he understood.

I asked him about the outside world and to that, he simply shrugged.

"Why don't you fight the Endbringers?" To that, he merely laughed.

"What's your classification?" I tried instead, giving it a shot.

"Slaughterhouse Twelve," he answered at once, and that was the last time I asked.

I began to wander around the cabin more frequently, looking through every cupboard and hidden space. I learned that the fridge and all the lights were powered by external generators. The stove was an old thing, powered by portable gas. He kept enough spares to last for years, all under the sink.

Every single knife hung from a magnetic strip above the kitchen counter, always within plain sight. There were no others, but I knew he kept a pair of scissors in his room.

He kept no rat poison; I definitely checked twice for that.

He was lazing outside on the lawn chair when I decided to give the study room a try. It was plain, a little dusty, and like the rest of the place, there were no clocks or computers anywhere in sight. A shelf on the wall caught my attention, filled to the brim with books.

My heart stopped.

I recognized them all. How could I not? These were mine once, slotted into every Offering.

They were sorted like a bookshop, alphabetically by each author's family name. I even found half my brother's Terry Goodkind collection, the one time I had stolen them out of spite. Running my fingers against their broken spines, I realized how trivial it all seemed now.

It pained me to imagine everything—did everyone think me dead? I wondered if they held a funeral, or if they were simply waiting for me instead.

Night and day interchanged quickly as I read through the fourth part of the book. By the time I reached the fifth, he kept me up late into the night just to hear about the paths the characters took.

When I finally grew tired, he slipped down to join me on the rug. I remember him taking the book from my hands, and for the first time, he read to me instead.

I fell asleep to the sound of his voice, with the warmth of the fire sending me off.

* * *

It was still dark when he shook me awake.

"Get up," he said, the words a hurried whisper. My response was an unholy hybrid of a snort and a whine. He gave me another shake for good measure.

My muscles ached as my vision cleared and I had to roll over to get up onto my knees, before steadying myself against the mantel to tumble onto my feet.

"There's an errand I need you to run," he said from the comfort of his armchair, gesturing with a nod towards a basket on the kitchen counter.

"What is it?" I asked, stumbling towards it. From a quick glance, I saw containers of different sizes stacked inside. A small flashlight rested beside it.

"I forgot to put those out earlier," he answered. "Just place them on the food bench in the forest. The townspeople will pick it up when it's time."

"They don't even keep it," I told him, yawning into my hand.

Something fuzzy hit my face. Catching it as it fell, it unfolded into a sweater. It smelled like old moth balls. "Don't die from the cold," he drawled, his eyes closed as he leaned back.

With a heavy sigh, I put it on, pushing the long sleeves up so they bunched around my lower arms. Without a second glance, I grabbed the basket and left the cabin.

Finding my shoes was easy, but despite everything, I hadn't gotten better at telling the time from the various shades of night. Clicking the flashlight on, I stalked through the field, crushing the weeds as I walked, until the dark forest came up ahead.

It was more terrifying at night, I had to admit. The moonlight was filtered here, falling through dark branches in thin streams. I could hear sounds from birds, insects. The artificial beam of the flashlight guided my way, but it also emphasized thick shapes in the dark.

There was no manmade path that led from the cabin to the altar and I had to keep the light pointed down to avoid tripping over roots.

The altar was empty when I approached it, the damp blanket long since removed. Dumping the basket on top, a glimpse of something reflected in the plastic caught my eye. I waved the flashlight over it, catching glimpses of colour underneath, like strange, inverted images.

Removing the containers one by one, I found the book I read below.

Confused, I reached further into the basket, until a familiar pattern brushed against my hand. I knew that design anywhere—my grandmother had sewn it in herself. It had been the shirt I wore the day the Devil took me from this forest. Digging deeper, I found its matching pair of pants. Alarmed, I dug around with the aid of my flashlight, and found nothing else but my old wristwatch.

The bright flash of light caught me by surprise, but it wasn't until I heard the voices that I finally understood what he had intended all along.

* * *

Arguably, things went downhill from there.

It was a strange mix of everyone keeping me at arm's length and trying to understand what happened.

I think what bugged me most was that everyone considered me a risk—against myself, or against others, I couldn't tell, only that they reacted to my every whim. Even eating was a danger, and I was given plastic forks and spoons. No knives, never those, and nurses were assigned in shifts to watch my every move.

It was hours before they let my family in and my mother was a hysterical mess. When they let her near, she sobbed greatly, grabbing my face and shaking me as though I was possessed. My father's lips were in a constant tight frown, as though he knew not what to say. All I saw was him eyeing the clothes I wore, large and loose around my frame.

My brother's reaction was similar too, his body was tight and tense. I couldn't tell if he noticed the way his fists would clench tightly, then unclench.

They made me go through some kind of basic check-up—they took my blood pressure, my fingerprints, and some blood. The second round was stranger—they swabbed my mouth, clipped my nails, and even took some hair. My family was there with me the whole time, so I didn't bother to protest.

I could see the questions in everyone's eyes, but nobody asked a thing.

I think it was the rules they were afraid of—the madness that Kariyev's widow had contained.

"He let me see his face," I said, when they finally took me home. "I think I've seen more of him than most."

My mother's flinch ended the conversation before it even began and my father stormed up the stairs. Barely meeting my eyes, my brother escorted me to my room instead, as though scared I would forget where it was.

"It wasn't all that bad," I told him, trying to reassure him in some way. "He liked to hear me read to him most nights and sometimes during the day."

I could hear him inhale. "You mean… like in The Reader?" he asked slowly, as though each word pained him in some way.

"Sure," I said, without much thought. I hadn't read the Aleph book, nor had I seen the film. Last I recall, it was some story about a guy who would read novels to an older woman. I think her illiteracy was the twist.

He hesitated, before putting a hand on my shoulder, as though worried that I would break.

"I'm not happy," he said, choosing each word carefully, "but I understand that you did what you had to do. Don't listen to the others. Don't let this be what defines you."

I simply nodded before he left me, confused but appreciative of his sudden sagely advice.

* * *

Several days passed before things started making sense.

My mother had cried in relief when I bled onto my bed. My father had let out a deep breath, as though we had been set free from some kind of curse.

I had been excused from all my classes, and it had seemed like a good thing at the time, especially once I realized that all my peers, of both genders, would steer away whenever they passed me on the streets. I was awkwardly untouchable now, like a disease that eluded quarantine.

I tried to confine myself away from public places, but staying indoors almost drove me mad. I started helping my mother again with her daily errands.

Most of the people I met gave me looks of pity, while others shot me scandalous looks instead. It took me a while to realize that there were two existing schools of thought about me—one held that I was a tragic victim spared by an unknowable entity, while the other remained suspicious in regards to my fortuitous return.

"My children fell victim to the madness," a woman muttered to her friends once, when I was browsing at a shop nearby. "I remember feeling him near, feeling helpless, but they were the ones who saw him."

"Maybe it's like the Simurgh," said another. "Maybe she's already dead and this is her shell, like a time-bomb, waiting to release the madness on the rest of us instead."

"That's a stupid theory," said the first, her voice bitter with spite. "It wasn't tinker craft the first time. Building a bomb? Don't make me laugh. All he did was walk onto our streets and half the city fell dead. If he wanted us gone, he'd return and do that instead."

"What about the girl, then?" said a third. "Nobody sees him and survives. Why did he let her live?"

"What else would he keep a girl like that for?" said a fourth, her voice low and all-knowing, as though she knew a great secret. "They say he is a man, and every man has needs. Maybe she pleased him, you know… maybe that's why he let her live."

I nearly screamed as the others assented in turn, and suddenly all the pieces clicked into place.

I ran out onto the street, and felt everyone's eyes upon me, like vultures skulking near their prey.

Is that seriously what they thought? What kind of twisted logic did they use?

I hunted down my classmates, just to see if they thought the same. Most of the girls just looked at me uncomfortably, then made excuses and shuffled away.

"Is it true that he made you read while you did it?" asked a girl I loved to hate. "You should be flattered that you were wanted by an S-Class cape." She gave me a dismissive once-over. "Though I suppose he must have been desperate when he found you. I guess there's no accounting for taste."

I hit her in the face.

I got off relatively lightly, as my parents used the excuse that I was still wound up. I started to scream at them for it, but got an earful in response.

"Nothing happened to me," I told them, beating my palm against a desk. "It was nothing like what you think. He just gave me his old clothes, there was nothing else to it."

I cornered my brother when he returned, trying to plead my case. The rumours had to stop. I really couldn't live this way.

I nearly broke when he looked at me in pity, and he seemed genuinely confused. "But… reading alone just doesn't make sense."

Right then, I nearly hit him too.

"Why is everyone saying these things?" I asked, wiping my eyes with the back of one hand. "Doesn't anyone want to know what I know about him?"

"Well…" he said, regarding me seriously. "You need to understand that no-one else has been in your position before."

"Look," he said, waving me over to his laptop screen, which was open to the local equivalent of the PHO. "Even the top thinkers over in Moscow claim that he can't be seen or predicted, whether by satellite or through the usage of powers. Rumour has it that even Dragon can only track him by identifying where he isn't."

"So…?"

He brought up a different kind of webpage onto the screen. I didn't recognize it. "There's been a lot of chatter on the dark web lately, and most of it started around the time you went missing."

"What do you mean?"

He hesitated for a moment before clicking on something. An image popped onto the screen.

My blood ran cold.

The image was grainy, a cross between monochrome grey and traditional black and white. Something printed in the corner had been censored by blackout strips—the kind seen on official, classified documents. There were two humanoid-shaped figures in the centre of the photo. No faces could be seen, and it really seemed like a stretch to call those blurs people, but I could recognize the Devil anywhere, languidly stretched out across his lawn chair without a care in the world, with myself seated beside him reading from my book.

My sharp intake of breath was all the confirmation my brother needed and the image disappeared from the screen.

"At first, everyone thought it was some kind of message. Like a threat of some kind. You know," he said, trying to make an explanatory gesture with his hands, "like he was taunting the world by displaying where he was."

I took a seat on his bed. "So was he?" I asked.

"There's a thinker on the dark web who reasoned that it was a temporary state of some kind, and said that it felt kind of like a light switch. Throughout the day, it would go on and off, with no particular pattern. That picture was taken by chance during one of those moments, though nobody knows its source. It's definitely a satellite image, so I personally think it was taken by someone with ties to the Elitnaya Armiya. Others think it was a leak by the CUI."

"So why didn't anyone do anything about it?" I asked. "Why aren't the Elitnaya or the Krasnaya Perchatka here?"

He shrugged. "Everyone knows that Rukavitsa would never touch him with a thousand foot pole, and neither would she risk her group. Losing even half her people to contain him just wouldn't be worth the political trade-off. They'd be ripe for picking by the Elitnaya within a day. As for the Elitnaya… I'm guessing they're not united enough to try an actual stand against him. Full armies don't stand a chance against the Dormant One. One-on-one would be suicide, no matter how well trained their soldiers are."

"Either way," he added. "They already missed any chance for further surveillance. Every thinker from here to North America has already confirmed that he's gone dark again."

"So what has this got to do with me?" I asked. "Does everyone on the dark web know I was kidnapped or something?"

"Well…" he winced, dodging the question. "There were some thinkers who took a formalist approach and decided to study the image." He clicked, bringing it back up onto the screen. "Everyone pretty much agreed that he had someone with him, though nobody could tell who. For a while, they thought it was a cape of some sort, but that was quickly dismissed in favour of, well… other theories."

"Like what?" I asked, lazing like a snow angel as I fell back onto his bed.

"Uh, well, the current theory is that he let his guard down."

"I can confirm that that is definitely not true," I told him, staring at the square pattern on his ceiling. "Ever since I mentioned poisoning him, he never let me anywhere near the preparation of food."

"Well—wait, what? Are you serious?" he asked, and I glanced up to catch him gaping like a fish.

"He also makes kompot," I deadpanned, letting my head fall back.

"Err, that's good to know?"

"So what's the theory?" I asked, eager to get back on track.

He seemed to struggle finding the right words. "Well, it ties back into the argument that he kept entering a temporary state, and it seemed like… he entered a state of mind where he… would, you know, get distracted, and…"

"And what?"

"And lose control… I guess." He finished lamely.

This time, the pieces clicked together quickly.

I sat up at once.

"You're all sick," I said, disgusted. I looked away from the picture that taunted me from the screen.

"Does everyone think that?" I asked. My fists clenched at the thought. "Does everyone in the town know about this?"

"Well, no," he said, truthfully. "They kind of drew their own conclusions." He shrugged. "You know how they are. Hicks and all."

That gave me zero comfort to know.

"Wait." Looking back at the picture, something clicked in my head. "Yeah, hold up just a second. That theory completely fails. The picture itself refutes it. Those two blurs—there's definitely nothing seedy going on there. Now how do you explain that?"

He shrugged again. "Maybe there's a downtime?"

I hurled a pillow at his head. "This is _me_ you're talking about, and I told you nothing happened like that."

"No," I continued. "I like the first theory better—the one about making a threat. That seems more like him. I remember the first time he caught me, he did exactly that. Though… I think you're right about the temporary state too. You said it turned on and off, and most of the reading was broken up throughout the day. He would always close his eyes whenever I read to him…" I recalled the time he quoted the text back to me, exactly word-for-word. "I think you're right about him being distracted somehow, but I don't agree that it was an involuntary thing. Or maybe only involuntary in the sense that he had to make a conscious switch, like… that powerful cape with the stupid American name based somewhere in Omsk."

" _Johnny Blue?_ " he asked.

"Yes," I said, snapping my fingers. "Something like that. I think that he can slot multiple abilities, and traded his surveillance block for a kind of eidetic memory." I felt a sense of elation as the pieces fell together. "That's how that picture got taken. He made a trade-off every time I read."

"That's… kind of counterproductive," he said. "Exposing himself like that. He's ruined some of the mystery about who or what he is. I just… don't see a point to that."

"It makes sense though," I countered. "Everyone in town says that he drives everyone mad, and does worse to the people who look at him directly. But he didn't do that to me. I think it's because he didn't expect anyone to be there in the forest at the time, and thus had no need to keep that madness power activated. Plus, he has his reputation. A trade-off between powers from time to time isn't going to inspire a witch hunt against him."

"But this explains nothing about why he took you," he said, getting to the heart of the matter.

"Well," I sighed, slumping back onto his bed, "maybe even the Devil has his lonely days."

* * *

I woke to the sight of a masked stranger looking down at me, a gloved hand resting gently on my throat.

"You can scream if you'd like," he mused, tracing circles along my neck. "I think it'd make a nice soundtrack for your family, as they break their little minds just imagining what we're up to." He chuckled, and it was an ugly sound. What made it worse was his mask—an ugly caricature of a red and black devil, with tiny twin horns at the peak. It covered the whole top half of his face, past his nose. Only his mouth was exposed and his jaw was sharp and clean shaven.

The rest of his outfit seemed to complement the choice, and it looked almost military, with utilitarian straps holding everything together and armoured plating running along both his lower and upper arms. The texture of his gloves was thick and rough, with only his fingertips exposed.

It had the effect of making him look both repulsive and menacing, and my mind honed in to the fact that his fingers were anything but sweaty.

"What do you want?" I said. It sounded like a whisper to my ears.

His hand trailed south, until it found my blanket. He yanked it away.

"Get up," he said, more coldly. "We've got a very busy day."

* * *

I was still dressed in my pyjamas when he led me down to the living room.

My parents and brother were seated side-by-side on a two-person couch, while a whole unit of heavily armed soldiers remained fanned out across the room. Only a hermit wouldn't have recognized that uniform.

"Elitnaya," I breathed, as silence met my statement. My heartbeat thudded in my ears and I shuddered as the same gloved hand tightened on my shoulder.

The same fear I had felt upon meeting the Devil came over me then.

"Why so scared?" he asked, his tone a fine balance between mockery and amusement. "They say the Dormant One kept you for days. Weeks. This should be nothing compared to him."

If I were braver, I might have scoffed. Hindsight couldn't hold a candle to the terror of the moment.

My brother was fidgeting nervously while my mother whimpered in fright. My father looked positively calm in comparison, though the rigid lines around his jaw betrayed him. They were all dressed in their night clothes, with matching house slippers. I remember the year we bought them at the fair.

My brother moved to stand, but changed his mind as he met the eyes of the cape behind me.

A thought struck my mind then that the Elitnaya's specialty was to hunt and kill other parahumans.

And there was only one other cape in a three hundred mile radius.

"…You're too late," I said, steadying my voice as best as I could. "Whatever you think happened has already been undone. You won't catch him off-guard."

"Don't worry," he said, with mock concern. "The plan I have is rather well thought out."

A neighbour's cock crowed in the distance, signalling the coming of dawn. The domesticity of it felt like a taunt.

"There's nothing quite like dramatic timing," the cape mused. He made a gesture with his hand and the soldiers filed out, escorting my family with them.

* * *

A part of me burned with the knowledge that nobody who saw us from the safety of their windows moved to help, though I suppose we looked quite the horrific sight, like something out of a school textbook or historical war movie. Like soldiers rounding up prisoners to be marched to their deaths.

I felt like a protagonist of a novel I never wanted to read, but was guilty of it anyway.

There was something about the juxtaposition of a family of four being marched out in their bathrobes and slippers, escorted by a bunch of bulky, intimidating soldiers armed with automatic guns that just scaled up both the horror and ridiculousness of it for me.

I suppressed a snort of disbelief, catching a look of alarm from my mother. My father, ever the optimistic pragmatist, put an arm around her and whispered assurances into her ear.

I wonder if he cursed me, just a little, for what I kept bringing to this household.

My brother tried dragging his feet, at least until one of the soldiers struck him in the ribs. I ran over to support him, but the cape pulled me back, keeping me at arm's length from my family.

The soldiers began to split up into groups all over the forest when we came in sight of the altar. They moved with precision, communicating with quick hand signals instead of words. The cape kept his hands on my shoulders as three soldiers began escorting my father, mother, and brother forward.

The implication chilled me.

They were just over fifty metres away from the sight of the clearing when the soldiers began to zip-tie their hands behind their backs. My brother struggled the most and was knocked to his knees for it. My mother was beginning to plead, while my father just looked cold.

The cape stuck his hand out and a soldier passed him a gun.

"Let's invite him out, shall we?" With that, he emptied the barrel near my mother's head.

All of us reacted—the shock, the anger, the disbelief coming in quick succession, but the Elitnaya kept us firmly in line. The cape twisted my arms behind me when I tried to fight back. The ringing in my ears kept up; a constant hum.

"Just listen," he said, pressing his weight against me as he pushed my head down against the flat of the altar.

I heard my mother make a noise—something like a gasp, before the shuffling of feet followed. From the angle of my vision, I could see my brother on the ground, still kneeling as a soldier stood over him. He was looking in the direction of our mother with a gaze of pure terror. I heard her trip as she stumbled onto the grass.

It wasn't long before she started screaming.

Conceptually, everyone in Kasimov knew what the madness was, but nobody who had experienced it first-hand had ever survived it. The Devil had lived up to his name and destroyed the minds of everyone who had seen his face, while crippling everyone else with pure, unadulterated terror.

There were those who likened him to the old creatures of the night, the ones that no humans were ever supposed to see. Some speculated that he was a domovoi in its truest form or even a leshy gone wrong. Others held that he was actually one of the Endbringers—one who chose to remain close to human populations, dormant until his sister called to him from space.

The cape was trembling—whether in anticipation or fear, I couldn't tell. "Run to your mother," he whispered into my ear, almost breathlessly, before pulling me up and pushing me in the direction of the clearing.

I ran in the direction of the screaming, keeping my eyes low towards the ground. I found her thrashing about on the grass, hands bleeding as she struggled to free herself from her restraints. I tried to hold her down, but she struggled violently in my grasp, spitting blood that gurgled low in her throat. Her lips were a torn, jagged mess and her teeth gleamed red. Her eyes were wild, filled with burst capillaries, darting about like a demon seeking release. I tasted the tears that echoed the pounding in my ears.

Bringing my eyes up in the direction of the cabin, what I saw was no frightening figure. The Devil strolled leisurely, without a care in the world, until he arrived at a safe distance between the cabin and the woods. He was sweating through the neckline of a white t-shirt, with his sleeves rolled up, as though he had done a round of physical labour. Wet hair stuck to his forehead, a short distance from his eyes. He carried a felling axe in one hand, hefted up against his shoulder, and stared at me with an unreadable gaze.

His eyes rose to survey the forest, as though measuring the location of every soldier lying in wait. My mother had stilled in my arms by then, no longer convulsing, but I could hear a soft murmuring like a video on loop.

An ecstatic laugh filled the air as the cape—suddenly behind me—yanked me to my feet. His hand settled on the back of my neck, directing my gaze so that only the Devil remained in my line of sight. I struggled in his grasp, reaching for my mother, but he tightened his grip. I gasped in pain.

" _Sleeper_ ," the cape hissed, drawling the syllables of the English word like a taunt. I could almost hear his grin. "Ghost of the Night, Dormant One… Sleeping Devil. They have so many names for you back in Moscow. It is truly a pleasure to see you for what you really are."

"Imperator," the Devil said, without inflection. He sounded almost bored, but his eyes were keen, assessing. "A mere dog, far from his leash. Have your masters finally lost their minds to send you, of all people, to test me?"

Imperator shook as he laughed, and I felt it in my bones. When I tried to elbow him, he casually drew a gun with his free hand and pointed it down at my mother.

"I think you and I both know you're powerless here," he said, almost conspiratorially. The Devil merely shrugged, almost imperceptibly, though I caught his gaze flickering to mine.

"I find it funny that it always comes down to sentiment being the age old weakness for monsters like you," Imperator went on. "You should always bury your girls when you're done with them, so they can never kiss and tell. But thank the stars, you were sloppy."

The Devil blinked, almost in disbelief, before scoffing. It sounded like a laughing wheeze. " _This_ is what you were sent from Moscow to do? If you think that such things are my weakness, you're a romanticising fool." He waved a hand at me dismissively. "Kill her if you must."

I didn't know what I expected really, but the words still stung.

Imperator sighed, before leaning in close. When I turned to look at him, he directed my gaze so it remained ahead. "Do you know what his power is?" he asked.

At my silence, he fired a shot near my mother's foot. "Okay, okay, yes." I answered quickly. "He's like _Johnny Blue_ or _Eidolon_ , and can switch powers at will."

"Did he tell you that?"

"No, I guessed it myself." I said, meeting the Devil's eyes, before breaking my gaze. "It's the only thing that fits."

His axe shifted in his grip.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Imperator's smile widen, like a cat cornering its prey.

"Wrong," he said. "But don't feel bad. Nobody knew. At least until you came in."

He shifted his gun, shooting the Devil in the shoulder.

The axe dropped with a thud, and he gasped, stumbling backwards before finding his footing. Blood pooled traitorously around his shoulder and he winced, struggling to reach for the wound with his other hand. I took a step forward, but Imperator held me back.

"Even bored gods can become mortal, in the end," he shuddered, relishing the sight. With a snap, a soldier took his place, hands tight around the base of my neck, fingers resting on my collarbones. The cape sauntered forward, stepping close to kick the axe away before dancing out of the Devil's reach.

"They will speak of this day forever," he marvelled, almost in disbelief. "The day that I killed the Dormant One with my bare hands. Who would dare to stand against me after this?"

I was equally dumbstruck. The Devil was an S-Class cape with a reputation greater than some of the others combined. Nilbog was a sad, American thing, confined to a tiny kingdom. The Slaughterhouse Nine had the power of unimpeded movement, but they only thrived due to shared solidarity and the ability to adapt to change. The Dormant One, the one the Americans called the _Sleeper_ , the Devil that haunted my town—he was a living myth and madness incarnate. The government, or what was left of it, had claimed in despair that we of Russia were condemned to have him. Even nuclear attacks were determined to be pointless against him.

But the blood on his shoulder bloomed stark red against the paleness of his shirt, and I could hear him breathe, inhaling deeply and letting go. His expression gave nothing away, but he seemed guarded, more aware.

"So your legacy will be a sham," the Devil said quietly, the hint of a smirk crossing his lips. "Pretty lies of false glory built upon a silly tale of a powerless man shooting another powerless man on a secluded field, all to hide your inadequacy and your fear."

Imperator struck him then, forcing him down onto one knee.

Then he bent down, so they were almost staring eye to eye. "…You admit it then," he said smugly, "that the girl is exactly what she is."

The statement caught me by surprise. What the hell did that mean?

I spoke my mind.

"You're the black hole we've been looking for." Imperator said, smiling knowingly. "It took so many thinkers… They could barely see you, you know. We had to do blind tests, remove contexts… It was worth it in the end. Don't you _know_ what you do?" He watched me carefully. I didn't know what reaction he was hoping for. "He's powerless against you. His madness could never touch you, even if he tried."

"What?" was all I said. I might have laughed if it wasn't for the seriousness of his expression. "That's the stupidest theory—"

"No," Imperator said darkly. "It really isn't."

A strange coldness came upon me then.

"You lied, didn't you?" he asked, striking the Devil in the face. "You saw the girl for what she was and then you took her for yourself when you should have bashed her head in." Heavy strikes followed. "You want to tell me about _my_ inadequacy? You want to preach to me about _fear_? You're just a weak piece of shit hiding behind powers that make it so that nobody in this world can see you for what you really are."

It was terrifying how it worked—the way the implication crawled through me like doubt weaving its way through my mind, poisoning my thoughts as denial and reassurances rose up against each other like a gathering storm. I thought back to my first meeting with the Devil all those weeks ago—had it really been me that kept his power at bay? Had he not chosen to spare me that day? My mother's whispers were still audible and it came to me then that she had only calmed down after I came near, when I had seen the Devil approaching us…

I watched the Devil take a stand, but if it was true, then what was the point? Reputation? Like a show he kept up in case strangers were watching? I remembered my broken phone and his words to me then—how it was all my choice, and that I could have left… but that the only ones to pay would be everybody else.

The trueness of it struck me like several punches to the gut. The sound I made was as much a bitter cry as it was a laugh. I wiped a tear from my cheek.

"Keep her head up," Imperator snapped, as my thoughts betrayed me in a violent loop. If I was a cape, was this all I accumulated to? Useful to nullify my own, but helpless against a trained military? The irony didn't escape me. As the Imperator had shown no powers, I assumed that he was susceptible to me too. I didn't know how to even the odds, and a part of me wondered if I should.

Two devils stood before me and both presented futures that were bleak. If Imperator was right, one was an actual S-Class threat who skewered everyone's perception of him and twisted the minds of those who saw him in the flesh, and if I figured out how to release him, the Elitnaya would die horrible deaths, but so would my family. The other was Russian military—killing the Devil was clearly his goal, but what would happen to me? My family? Would we be killed for knowing the Devil's secret, for knowing this operation took place? Or worse—would I be forced to join the Elitnaya?

I envisioned a future of my current predicament—my family used to secure my loyalty, while they used me to hunt other parahumans. Maybe even each other. Everyone knew that the Elitnaya were backstabbing traitors at heart.

My neck ached as the soldier realigned my gaze, and I sighed, figuring out why they were obsessed with me looking the Devil's way. I felt stupid for not noticing it sooner.

The capes couldn't affect me, but I was the one who could keep them from affecting everybody else.

A resounding crack echoed across the plains as Imperator struck him with one of his armguards. I saw the anger in the Devil's expression as he lunged back, getting in a hit. Imperator recovered with a trained strike to his opponent's gut, following up by jabbing his thumb into the gaping bullet wound.

The masked devil laughed when the other screamed.

"There's nothing more beautiful than a fallen god's scream," he said, wistfully. "I wish I could make you taste my power, but I suppose we can't have all our dreams." Kicking the Devil onto his back, he placed a foot upon his chest, his forearm slumping over a bended knee. "It was suggested to me to bring you back to Moscow, you know. Assuming your powers could be tamed. The thinkers couldn't read into your relationship with the girl, so no concrete decision was made." He sighed disappointedly. "The lonely _Sleeper_ brought low by a single loose end."

I'd like to pretend that I carried the fate of the living world on my shoulders—determining the choice between life and death, strength and weakness, journey and destination. I'd like to pretend that I was choosing the better option, the lesser of two evils, chancing the life of my family against the possibility of having all our choices taken from us.

I'd like to pretend that in the end, I didn't panic, that it was all sentimentality and tit-for-tat as the Imperator held his gun point blank to the Devil's head.

But nothing would ever justify, to me, what I did next:

I shut my eyes and let the world go mad around me.


End file.
